The Beginning of After

results!”
    Her eyes danced a bit, and I wondered if my involvement was some kind of extra selling point for her. Maybe she thought people would be more interested in coming to see the art if they knew half of it was by Laurel Meisner .
    “Thanks,” was all I said.
    “I’ll leave you two to work . . . let me know if you need anything!” She patted Joe on the shoulder but not me, and moved past us back up the stairs.
    “Good day so far?” said Joe, holding out his hand to take my sketch pad from me. I handed it to him but noticed him cringing a bit. “I’m sorry,” he added. “That sounded like a therapist or something. I was just, you know . . .”
    I wondered if there would ever be a time when he’d be able to just talk to me, without worrying that it would come out strange, without his words getting snagged on the Tree of Unfinished Sentences.
    “Don’t worry about it. You could never sound anything like my therapist.”
    He raised his eyebrows involuntarily. Oops! I’d just told him I saw a therapist. As if he didn’t already think I was some fragile Christmas ornament you had to hang up high on the tree so it was less likely to get knocked off.
    “Can we put our stuff over there?” I diverted, pointing to a table at the front of the room.
    We went through our sketches for the eight pieces. His drawings made me laugh, especially TurboSenior, who looked not unlike Joe himself, and fortunately a couple of my backgrounds cracked him up right back. For the Incredible Sulk—a goth girl with a sour expression doing a karate kick—I’d drawn a frilly pink and green bedroom.
    With Joe being so tall, I kept feeling his breath on my neck, smelling of spearmint gum. I was careful not to turn to look at him when I knew his face was close. I couldn’t take the uncertainty of another near-moment.
    “I think it’s safe to take this to the next level,” said Joe when we were done.
    Now I let myself look straight at him, surprised. This? Did he mean, us ?
    “Ink and paint,” he stammered, realizing.
    “I’m ready if you are,” I said as lightly as I could.
    I heard Joe swallow hard and looked up again. Don’t be afraid , I thought loudly, and wondered if I was saying it to myself, or to him.
    “There isn’t going to be some chic gallery opening or anything like that,” he said. “But my parents want to bring in some sparkling cider and cheese and crackers on the first night. I thought it would be fun for us to be here, you know, together.”
    Joe nervously bit his lower lip. We’d already made out and then I’d kiss-tackled him. Why did this have to be so hard? This was like baking cookies from a premade mix, not from scratch. All the hard work was already done.
    “I mean, I’d pick you up, and take you home after,” he finally said.
    I smiled at him, saying nothing.
    “Like a date,” he added with a smile back at me, then we both took the deep breaths we needed.
    When I got home, there was a stack of unassembled cardboard moving boxes sitting outside the front door.
    “Nana?” I called, walking into the house.
    “Can you grab some of those boxes?” she said, coming down the stairs to meet me. “I had them delivered, but I need your help carrying them in and putting them together.”
    After I brought them inside, I watched Nana as she examined the boxes, waiting for her to provide more information. But it seemed like she wanted me to ask.
    “What are they for?” I finally said.
    “Coats,” she replied matter-of-factly. “You know I do that every year, up in Johnstown. We collect old coats during the holidays and distribute them at the Rescue Mission.”
    “Oh, right.”
    “So I thought we’d do the same here.” She paused, and swallowed. “With your father’s. And your mother’s. She had so many.” I didn’t say anything, so she also added, “I found a foster children’s group that will gladly take your brother’s.”
    Nana went straight to the front closet, opened it, and started rummaging around. “You can keep anything of your mother’s that you want, of course. You should. Some of it was expensive, and it would look nice on you.” She pulled out a long brown cashmere coat that Mom often wore into the city and handed it to me. “Like this one.”
    I took it silently, the fabric collapsing into my hands. I raised it to my face and inhaled.
    Musty, but laced with flowers and some kind of sweet spice, like cinnamon.
    “I don’t think I can do this,